


Missing

by amuk



Category: xxxHoLic
Genre: Angst, Community: 31_days, Death, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Ghosts, Implied Relationships, Loss, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a lot time for wounds to heal. Especially ones you don't even know exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: 9. Back then, we believed we were gods

Most dreams go like this:

 

“I can’t go yet.”

 

A chuckle.

 

“I know.”

 

“No, no you don’t. I _can’t_.”

 

A grunt.

 

“We know.”

 

-x-

 

There is a gaping wound in his chest, where his still beating heart sometimes aches. He scars it over, with half-truths and lies and a cold knowledge that _that_ day might never come.

 

-x-

 

There is a void, in his dreams, a black wall of nothing that spans from forever to nowhere. He’s standing at the edge of it, the shop behind him. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of the dark green of her mitts, the earthy brown of his scarf in the corners of his eyes. Her dark curls bounce when she laughs, his clothing shifts as he nods.

 

They’re waiting for him, still. Patiently standing beside him, staring into that void as he does, they wait and watch and learn. Sometimes, if he reaches out, a little further than yesterday, a little less than tomorrow, he can touch them. Fingers brush against wool and skin and the empty air.

 

He never tries more than that. They’re waiting for his hands to curl around theirs, for that first step to be taken. Instead, he turns (and he never sees them, apparitions vanishing as quickly as they existed) and walks back in.

 

-x-

 

The mornings after those dreams are almost unbearable. The dream lingers in the back of his mind, echoes in the empty room, whispers out the front door until it invades the whole building. It’s a part of the foundations now, following him from room to room as he goes through life.

 

He lies there vacantly, still feeling her warm hands, his lean arms.  Even in life he didn’t allow himself these pleasures and now they mark his skin too deeply to disappear.

 

His fingers are still groping for something they can’t reach. He doesn’t have the heart to stop them.

 

-x-

 

There are other dreams, the worst are the ones with Yuuko. He follows the edges of butterfly wings, the winding smoke and soft sighs of her kimono. He goes nowhere, catching the faintest whiffs of perfume and the slightest brushings of long tresses.

 

Yuuko wouldn’t approve of this, he knows. She’d make him do the most difficult chores and then order rounds upon rounds of sake and complicated meals.

 

He wouldn’t complain this time. It’d just be enough to know she’s back.

 

(But she isn’t—there’s no longer any perfume lingering in discarded clothing or hair knotted around the teeth of her comb. No twisted smiles or half-meant compliments, just a silent breeze and the smell of his own smoke.)

 

-x-

 

They aren’t going to come back, though. Those days of walking to school, slightly ahead and greatly behind and sometimes just in the middle of them, are long over.

 

Himawari confessed, once, that she loved him. That time, it sounded like a wish, a desire that she had hidden until he was ready. Until his ears stopped listening for “Watanuki!” and his eyes stopped looking for the ghosts of his memory.

 

She gave him a sad smile, the waning crescent of the moon, before he responded.

 

-x-

 

Every ‘I love you’ after that sounded like a promise. He still doesn’t know what.

 

-x-

 

 Domeki visited every day until the day he died. His son visited with him sometimes, his grandson after.

 

“I’m the family curse,” Watanuki joked one day. Domeki wasn’t there then, just his son.

 

Even though his son wasn’t as dedicated as Domeki, wasn’t as dedicated as his own son would be, he still gave a hard, long look.

 

“No, you’re the promise we couldn’t keep.”

 

-x-

 

Domeki’s grandson brings his own son one day. Watanuki is awake, just enough, to see the similarities once more, the encompassing confidence that flows from the child.

 

“You all are the same.” Not in looks, but in soul, in that something that is too hard to touch and measure and weigh.

 

Yuuko once told him that that the human soul was worth far more than anyone expected. He sees why with every visit.

 

The boy is left in front of him and greeted enthusiastically by Moro, Maru, and Mokona.

 

He looks at him, expectantly after, and Watanuki knows what he’s waiting for. For that one story, the one that makes each descendant wait patiently, that continues on this line of watchers.

 

If he wanted to, he could probably stop it. Just keep quiet, refuse them at the door.

 

Domeki’s heirs could withstand more than that, so he repeats the story anyways. Let’s the choice remain bare despite the pre-determined path.

 

“Back then, we could do anything.”

 

Back then, gods existed.


End file.
